


My Devoted Drunk.

by Inkblooded_Witch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 02:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblooded_Witch/pseuds/Inkblooded_Witch
Summary: While Castiel has never complained about Dean going out to spend a night with the guys, he has leaned to expect harsh retribution when he makes the mistake of coming home completely drunk. Which is why he finds it very strange and very frightening when he wakes up with a hangover and a very different sort of behavior from his husband. Destiel, one-shot. Rated for language.





	My Devoted Drunk.

    The porcupine was his first clue. It usually was. The damned creature liked to herald his hangovers with a jig between his ears when he was just starting to wake up. This was momentarily followed by the other symptoms that followed a night of too much fun and too much alcohol. His eyes were dry and gritty when he tried to open them, the morning sunlight too bright, his mouth dry and seemingly full of cotton.

    He appeared to be down to yesterday’s underwear on his bed, his face plowed into his pillow. Dean reluctantly dragged his head up, peering at the bedside table’s clock. It read 9:16, which wasn’t half bad considering he probably got home six or seven hours ago. What made him blink and sit up to rub his sandy eyes was what rested next to his clock. Nope, they were still there. Two aspirins and a bottle of water. Pinned beneath the bottle was a handwritten note. ‘Gone to the store, will fill up Baby’s tank on my way back. Breakfast is on the table. Love you! XOXO’

    For a long minute Dean just stared at them, unease adding to his discomfort. “The fuck?” he muttered groggily, swinging his legs over the bed’s edge. He picked up the note, eyeing it uneasily. This was Castiel’s handwriting. Unlike Dean, saying ‘I love you’ was easier for him, and it was more common on notes he left, but there was no way in hell he should be saying it now. If he’d blown Castiel’s mind last night this might make more sense, but he hadn’t. Unfortunately he didn’t blackout completely, and he remembered enough to know he should be in the doghouse for a week. Not being left mushy notes.

    He’d left with good intentions, honest. Share a few brews, enjoy some time with Benny and Sam and Garth, then return at a respectable hour. But two beers had turned into three, then four. Then beer had turned to whisky. As their resident lightweight Garth was the designated driver, but everyone else ended up joining Dean in his challenge to a particularly rude biker gang in going shot for shot. They’d won, naturally, but then poor, skinny Garth had had to pour all of them into his car. By the time he’d taken Sam home to a very amused Gabriel and handed Benny over to the mercies of his wife, Dean was having trouble keeping down bile. His memories after that were a bit hazy, but firm enough for him to remember key points. Like how he’d swerved and staggered up to their front door, told a very irritated Castiel he was fine, then bent double to hurl onto his shoes. His husband had muttered a thanks to Garth then began the process of trying to get Dean upstairs. Somehow they ended up in the living room instead, where Dean managed to fall onto their glass coffee table. Thankfully none of the shards had injured him, but by this point even drunk-Dean had been aware of his royally pissed husband. Normally Castiel was very calm, patient, but he disliked when Dean came home drunk. He’d been aware of his recreational actives while they were dating, and while he hadn’t asked that he stop he had requested that Dean take it easy and not drink to such indulgence around Claire. The child produced from his previous marriage was with them every other week, an arrangement made easier by the fact her mother lived across town. Dean liked Claire, they got along well enough when they weren’t snarking at each other. So his guy-time usually took place when Claire was at Amelia’s, but tonight he’d forgotten until they were passed the point of no return.

    He threw up a second time at the base of the stairs before Castiel dragged him up the steps. If he hadn’t already known his fate was sealed, he knew when Claire’s door opened and she poked her head out, fully awake and apparently having not been asleep in the first place. Whatever Castiel said to her Dean didn’t catch, everything else was a hazy blur. He didn’t even remember being dumped into bed.

    Wearily, Dean picked up the small white pills, studying them carefully. They _looked_ like normal pain killers, but he was still weary to swallow them. What if they were dusted with cyanide or something? They didn’t have any in the house but Castiel could be creative if he was pissed.

    Eventually his pounding skull and the still dancing porcupine made him gulp the pills, chugging what he hoped to be normal water to get them down his dry gullet. It tasted fine, but weren’t there some tasteless toxins out there? There were certainly tasteless laxatives, which would be far easier for Castiel to get ahold of.

    Staggering to his feet, Dean yanked the curtains closed to block out the pounding sunlight and stumbled to their bathroom. He took a leak, then stepped into a steaming shower. By the time he brushed his teeth and pulled on clean clothes he felt more human, if no less weary of the outside world.

    When Dean opened the door to their bedroom he poked his head out, looking around to make sure the coast was clear before making his way downstairs. He winced when he saw all traces of his little incident at the stair’s base had been scrubbed away. What surprised him was that the coffee table had also been cleaned up, every shard swept away. Just what did Cas have in mind for him that was so bad he was being so nice now?

    The sun was only marginally less painful when he made it to the kitchen. Claire was slouched at the table, empty plate in front of her, sipping a mug of coffee as her fingers danced across her phone’s screen. She looked up when he hesitated in the doorway, smirking. She’d been a cute little kid when her parents split, and she still had been when Castiel remarried. Now she was a full-blown teenager, with all the cockiness and attitude to go with it.

    “Where’s Cas?” he asked, shuffling over to pour himself some coffee. There was indeed food on the table still, which at this point didn’t even surprise him. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes.

    “Went to the store. He wrote you a note, right?”

    “Yeah.” Coffee in hand, he sank into a kitchen chair and pulled over the plate of bacon. “How pissed is he?”

    Claire raised her eyebrows, lowering her phone. “What are you talking about?”

    Dean grimaced even as he chewed crunchy ambrosia. “I came home totally wasted, he hates it if I’m even tipsy when I walk through that door. Just get it over with and tell me how long my ass is going to be in the doghouse.”

    She was outright grinning now, which almost worried him enough to make him stop chewing. “You don’t remember, do you?”

    “What he said? No. He didn’t put anything in the food, did he?”

    His step-daughter set down her phone, folding her arms and smirking at him. “You threw up three times. Once on his shoes, once in the hall, and once in your bedroom before we could get you into bed. You broke the coffee table, and you were babbling your head off the whole time.”

    Dean winced. “I don’t need a repeat, just tell me what the damage is.”

    Claire held up a finger. “When dad saw I was up he made me help him because you got to where you couldn’t walk on your own. After you threw up the third time we dumped you onto the bed and started getting you undressed. Dad got your jacket and shirt off and I got your boots. He was trying to get your pants off when you yelled at him.”

    He tried not to openly cringe, not really wanting to know what it was.

    Grinning wider, Claire recounted, “’Hands off, bitch! I’m fucking married and he’s way more awesome than you!’”

    Dean blinked once, twice, then asked slowly, “I said that?”

    “Yep. He got this goofy grin on his face after that. I don’t think you’re in trouble, Dean. He cleaned everything up last night, and this morning he made breakfast. He’s getting groceries so you can make burgers for lunch and pizza for dinner. He’s also going to get Baby a full tank. Trust me, you’re in the good books.”

    “Seriously?”

    “Seriously. You gonna eat that?”

    He smacked her hand away when she reached for the bacon. “You weren’t eating it.”

    “If you come back like that again he will be pissed, you know. You got off lucky this time.”

    _“Really_ lucky,” he mumbled around a mouthful of bacon. He made a mental note not to challenge the integrity of anymore biker gangs. Maybe it sounded silly, but he’d rather have his ass handed to him by a bunch of ass-clowns than have Cas angry at him.


End file.
